


The Lover's Field Guide to the Birds of Denmark and Norway

by pyrrhocorax (mniotilta)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past relationship issues, ornithology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-02
Updated: 2016-02-02
Packaged: 2018-05-16 19:08:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5837515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mniotilta/pseuds/pyrrhocorax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Disclaimer: neither a perfect guide to love or a reliable guide of birds.</p>
<p>(Romantic DenNor, mostly fluff with mentions of past relationship troubles due to the rocky relationship between their countries and mildly educational about a handful of birds found in northern Europe.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lover's Field Guide to the Birds of Denmark and Norway

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote/finished this in early October. Jerri was talking to me about writing Denmark and Norway making out, but me being me I had to put my own spin on it which ended up getting wildly out of control and tangented all over the place and the result is this. 
> 
> I never posted it after finishing it because I wasn't too happy with it and just felt kinda bleh about writing at the time. I still give it about a "C" ranking in terms of how much I like it but I was listening to a radio show about birds while driving which had a similar presentation as this fic that I enjoyed, so I sort of figured that if I enjoyed that radio program perhaps people would like this too. That being said, it is also being posted largely in part because I have not had any time to write anything to finish up DenNor week or update SoS and I probably will not for a while longer and I feel Bad about that.
> 
> This is also known as: I did 10+ hours of research and listened to over 3 hours of birdcalls and now my one true desire in life is to edit all the various errors on Denmark's and Norway's list of birds wikipedia page.
> 
> Also also known as: this was originally going to be short but I ended up writing twelve pages because I'm incapable of shutting up about birds hope u fucking like bird metaphors!!!
> 
> Also because I realize that most people are 1. not hyper-interested in birds like I am 2. are probably not familiar with birds living in northern Europe 3. googling a bunch of birds to see what they look like if you're curious is a pain, I complied a picture powerpoint with every single bird mentioned in it and their names [here](https://docs.google.com/presentation/d/1A6QMoK4z79vbO6QcAYlxXOGo4hEc73WMHC2XFjpZ0Qw/edit?usp=sharing) in case you feel like looking at what I'm describing/referencing although it isn't necessary to understand the story.
> 
> Halvard "Halle" is my name for Norway.  
> Henrik is my name for Denmark.

Why don't we discuss some bird facts and talk about kissing?  
  
Kissing first, though.  
  
Halvard has never had a good grasp of romance as a concept. He knows how the steps go, viewing it just as an elaborate dance of benchmark rituals, leading to an informal contract that constitutes a partnership. Every dance is different (some dance in threes, some trip over their feet as they move, some are short-lasting and others long) but there's common ground in all romantic relationships. He experiences the feeling but he's somewhat tactless in the way he executes his affection to Henrik and would hardly consider himself a romantic. His pet names are often insults and his heartfelt words are usually dissolved in a shot of bitter sarcasm. A bop on the head can mean the same as a kiss and an unimpressed stare doesn't always mean disinterest.  
  
Henrik is dense, his innuendo blatant, a forward-acting and boisterous person who loves interpersonal rituals in contrast to Harvard's capriciousness But he's also a kind man, who has soft lips that always leave Halvard breathless, and he can say the cutest things between kisses. Sometimes Henrik's words are frankly, ridiculous, like something ripped from the diary of a pre-teen discussing their crush. When he says such things Halvard has to push him away and just look at him, mouth hanging open in disbelief over how silly it sounds. Occasionally though, the whispers into his ear are so mind-blowingly hilarious that Halvard just starts snorting, laughing even harder when Henrik leans into the crook of his neck to kiss those sensitive spots that Halvard tried for so long to keep a secret.  
  
Receiving affection is easier. It's returning the favor that's often the problem for Halvard. Biting remarks don't always make good pillow talk when your partner has been serving you and there's a certain obligation to add more sugar to an already over-sweetened session.  
  
In bed, Halvard runs his hands out of Henrik's hair and settles them on his partner's face, cupping Henrik's warm cheeks in his hands. He takes a deep breath—both to even out his heavy breathing and to give him enough air to speak—but suddenly blanks. What the does he say, in a situation like this? This isn't rocket science, Henrik isn't a stranger, and they been playing a never-ending game of exchange nearly their whole lives. But still, he's stuck, and he quickly glances at his bookcase in a desperate attempt for a hint.  
  
What comes out of his mouth, upon spying a birding field guide is “I love you, little bunting,” which in some respects is cute. The little bunting, or dvergspurv (“dwarf-bunting”) as it is known in Norwegian, is a small bird with streaked plumage, mixing lovely browns together with chestnut cheeks. It has a pleasant song, a pointed beak, and there is something intrinsically endearing about the whole package. It's a compliment to be named after such an adorable, harmless bird.  
  
But to Henrik, something about this is humorous, and he's the one who is momentarily confused before he bursts into hysterics.  
  
He ends up headbutting Halvard lightly, their foreheads touching as he laughs with his eyes squeezed shut, rolling off from atop Halvard onto the mattress beside him.  
  
“What,” Halvard asks, unmoving.  
  
“Little bunting? _Really_? You're something else, Halle.”  
  
“Oh, like you're one to talk.”  
  
“No, I mean,” Henrik wipes the tears that have accumulated in his eyes from laughing so hard, “I love it, really I do. I think it's cute! But that wasn't what I was expecting you to say.”  
  
“I could've called you a capercaillie instead.”  
  
(The western capercaillie is the largest living grouse and its bumbling size does not make it a very graceful flier. The males are known for their fanned tails, extenuated by their white beaks, iridescent feathers, and red eyebrows. They show off their fanned tails as a form of communication.)  
  
“Are you asking me to shake my ass for you?”  
  
Halvard, in a quick motion, flips over and lies on top of Henrik, pinning him down and cocking his head deviously.  
  
(The males are also extremely aggressive, battling each other for dominance during the height of breeding season, unafraid of going after larger animals and even humans if they feel their territory is threatened.)  
  
“No, if I had wanted that, I would've called you a wagtail.”  
  
(The white wagtail—black and white with a swooping tail—is the national bird of Latvia, by the way.)  
  
There's a series rough kisses from Halvard. It's such a sly move in the way he works his lips, parting Henrik's without even trying. And even though he knows that Henrik knows what's coming, Henrik still breathes as if he's shocked, as if the sensation is brand new, as if Halvard has never taken control like this before.  
  
It's ten minutes of kissing before Halvard comes up for air, pulling back and grinning.  
  
“My mute swan,” Halvard pants.  
  
(Mute swans get their name from the fact they don't vocalize as much as other swans. It is the national bird of Denmark and is most likely the species of swan that is written about in The Ugly Duckling. Swans are often symbols of monogamy, but interestingly enough, having romances on the side and polygamy is common for a few swan species. But swans are still associated with devotion, as Cygnus, their genus name, is the name of a loyal friend and lover who was transformed into a swan by the Greek gods to fly in the night sky in a famous myth. This is where we get the constellation of Cygnus.)  
  
True to the name, Henrik is breathless and his head is swimming with stars.  
  
(Swans, despite their imperfections, generally make great mates.)  
  
“I can't come up with anything clever,” Henrik says, his senses still buzzing, but he manages to reach up and stroke a hand down Halvard's satisfied face.  
  
“You were never that great with words to begin with,” Halvard hums. “Better stick with what you're good at.”  
  
Halvard gets off of him, slowly, because there's part of him that wants to linger and go after his collarbones next. But the other part of him, the part of him that's been through whirlwinds of affection countless times over the years, is tired and simply wants to steal body heat and whisper quiet things before closing his heavy eyes.  
  
It's always a tough choice. This time, he settles for the mid-line, leaving some wet kisses on Henrik's chest before they are both side by side, staring up at an uninteresting ceiling and searching for a hand to grasp while they reflect.

* * *

  
What is a kingfisher? Is he a king who fishes or a fisher who fishes up kings?  
  
(The common kingfisher is a small bird with a rufous breast and beautiful blue markings, each feather like a raindrop flowing down to the end of its short tail. Like all kingfishers it has a long bill and plummets into the water to catch fish. Such a small, highly precise hunter—but a bird that rarely lives past its first season despite it plenty capable of living much longer. The genus names for all kingfisher species are borrowed from a story in which a sacrilegious couple were struck down and turned into the birds post-mortem.)  
  
Surely, it was Henrik who chased him first, luring Halvard in closer with warmth and contact as bait. Come closer, come closer, there's nothing to be afraid of, it's safe here, it's safe, I want to be your friend.  
  
On this night, Halvard traces Henrik's palms. They are rougher, heavily calloused and scarred in comparison to when he first touched them all those years ago. But they are also unchanged, wide open and inviting. They make no attempt to snatch him, no matter how Halvard tempts him with small pokes.  
  
There was a time where Henrik tried, dragging Halvard forward and digging hooks into his throat, silently suffering as he trailed behind Henrik, tangled in fishing wire. What pained Halvard the most wasn't the blood, but the betrayal. _You hurt me, I trusted you, you hurt me, you snatched my crown away. I put my faith in you, I took your hand, and you held me tenderly before you and your prideful kingdom choked the air out of my lungs.  
  
I didn't mean to, I didn't know this would happen, I'm sorry Halle, I'm sorry. _ Extended palms again, offering sweeter fruits and promises, but all Halvard saw were iron barbs ready to pierce through his still-beating heart.  
  
_I made mistakes with my nation, with your nation, with our nation, and I'm sorry. You don't have to love me anymore, I would understand if you didn't. You're free Halle, I'm sorry I grounded you, I never meant to drag you through the mud with me. You don't have to love me, but I always will, and my empty hands only want to help you now.  
  
I'm sorry_ , he said, and Halvard sunk his teeth into Henrik's hands.  
  
_I'm sorry_ , and Halvard pierced them through with curled talons.  
  
_I'm sorry_ , and Halvard did only what cornered animals do when they're afraid.  
  
He folds Henrik's hands over and kisses the knuckles of one. Halvard can feel the scar tissue against his lips and he's certain some of these marks are from him.  
  
_King, oh dear sweet fisher king, it's been nearly a century and I have great news. The rivers run wild and the fish have returned. This kingdom is no longer a barren wasteland from your negligence and mistakes. But king, why won't you rise from the depths of your sorrows, why won't the wound in your side heal?  
  
_ And one day a lone fisherman wandered back into the kingdom and interlocked fingers with the fisher king, ripping him off his throne. The fisher's words were as sharp as spears he hunted with, piercing as they slid deep into the fisher king's soul, but despite the pain, the king was relieved.  
  
_You don't have to love me either,_ the fisher ended his confessions, _but you may, if you want to, if you dare to try again.  
  
_ So what is a kingfisher, asides from a bird?  
  
A king and a fisher, exchanging roles and sharing sins during the blessed halcyon days.  
  
_It's safe here, it's safe here,_ Halvard repeats to himself, interlocking his fingers with Henrik's and willingly trapping himself. It's so warm, and so kind. They both turn, first just their heads, and then their bodies, aligning closely and sliding against each other like clockwork, like it was always meant to be this way. Like it was always smooth sailing, as Henrik kisses him and Halvard curls a hand around Henrik's hip. Like it's always been good, even though it hasn't.  
  
“You're glittering,” Henrik smiles as he pulls away.  
  
It's a strange observation, but Halvard knows exactly what he means.  
  
And now it is he who lures Henrik along, whispering come closer, come closer, there's nothing to be afraid of, it's safe here, it's safe here.  
  
They're so close.  
  
Love me, love me if you dare, for no fisher can ever catch me and no king can ever rule me.  
  
Even closer.  
  
But I'll let you admire my body if you let me admire yours.

* * *

  
(The western jackdaw is found widespread across Europe and has bland dark plumage, each subspecies having slight variations in the pattern. They have piercing icy eyes and is a highly social animal, opportunistic and vocal, but are viewed as common pests by many. Nobody is quite sure where the name jackdaw comes from but their taxonomic name comes from the roots of “crow” and “money.” The reason for this? Jackdaws have a fascination with shiny objects. Coins, jewelry, even metallic garbage will be hoarded and stored in their nests.)  
  
Vikings lust for the shiniest of things, do they not? Gold, silver, anything that gives off a gleam goes. Give into greed, so that you may prosper. Play the dirty game, so that you can revel in your fortune. Claw for what you cannot split in two, use those words the devil taught you, and keep yourself steady so that you don't rock the boat on the journey home.  
  
Covet the money and metal you scavenge, for it will bring you wealth.  
  
But treasure your friendships above that, for riches cannot save you when a rowdy wave knocks you overboard.  
  
Henrik rubs the sides of Halvard's neck, tracing the lines of his body from the curves of his skull to the straights of his sides and back up again. His fingers curl around hair as soft as feathers, and between his deep breaths, he apologizes for things long since forgiven and laid to rest.  
  
“Lighten up,” Halvard sighs from above. “It's alright now.”  
  
“I still worry, y'know.”  
  
Halvard kisses him and leaves, folding himself backwards so that he sits at Henrik's feet before pivoting, sliding out of bed and venturing over to the bookcase that houses Halvard's favorite stories and reference books that he seldom uses. He runs a hand across the spines before stopping at the field guide he spotted hours before, pulling it forward and brushing the thin layer of dust off the top, blowing twice. He rummages around in a few drawers before finding a flashlight, testing it three times for good measure before coming back to bed, and with only short noises and hand gestures does he order Henrik to sit upright and help rearrange the blankets overtop of them. The first one is light enough to see through, small gaps in the thread allowing light to pass, the second one, a little less, the third brings their makeshift cave into pitch blackness.  
  
Halvard turns the flashlight on underneath his chin, illuminating his face and waiting an uncomfortable amount of time before flatly stating “boo.” Henrik chuckles at him, Halvard counters that he's completely serious (an outright lie, but his poker face is certainly impressive) and smacks the book on Henrik's head softly, letting it drop into his lap.  
  
“Let's play a game; you guess what bird I am, and if you're right, you win.”  
  
“This isn't gonna be like the time you asked me to guess a number from one to a thousand and you made me say every single whole number before confessing that your answer was 6.2, right?”  
  
“No. If I think you make a good case, I'll take it.”  
  
Halvard props the flashlight up between them and watches as Henrik flip pages back and forth aimlessly, fanning through the book and scanning over names and descriptions. He stops, his fingers running over an illustration, and continues this multiple times, whispering names off his lips.  
  
“I got it!” he eventually exclaims excitedly, turning the book around and pointing at a corner of the page. “You're a Eurasian wren.”  
  
(A bird with barred plumage and a stripe of light eyeliner across its brows. A small, swift creature that scurries like a mouse from tree branch to tree branch. Round and plump, it often pumps its small tail upright when excited, like that of a fleeing deer. Although nothing more than a fuzzy creampuff, this bird can produce a wonderfully strong, distinct sound from the tiny body that it inhabits. It is called “cave-dweller” by scientific name for a reason, as it is known for hiding and nesting in small crevices and can survive harsh cold because of this affinity for small, warm spaces.)  
  
“Why?” Halvard accepts the book back with two hands, glancing down at the page for any signs of himself.  
  
“You're very cute and precious. You like snug, cozy dark little holes which is why you like sweaters, hiding in closets, and making blanket forts. Your cleverness and resourcefulness is impressive which I think fits, given the wren is known as the king of birds for those traits. You have a pleasant voice—even if you don't personally think so yourself, don't protest that—and I like listening to you talk even if you don't do very much of it sometimes.”  
  
Henrik takes another breath to continue speaking and he leans in closer.  
  
“You're careful, a bit seclusive, but you're confident when it counts. You're painfully aware of your own limitations and faults—as wrens can't hunt in the same way eagles do—but inversely you know that those disadvantages can also be advantages and you pride yourself for seeing the world much the same way, finding a contrary point to everything. You're also surprisingly soft and a lot more fragile than people take you for, if anyone manages to catch you to discover your well-hid secrets.”  
  
Halvard, avoiding eye contact, doesn't protest when Henrik closes the book in his lap and tosses it aside before taking Halvard's hands into his own and squeezing them tightly.  
  
“And, to me, you're a good luck charm against misfortune and disaster, 'cause I feel better with you around. So! Did I win?”  
  
Halvard pecks him on the cheek and turns off the light.

* * *

  
While Henrik isn't wrong, Halvard wouldn't describe himself in the same words and certainly wouldn't portray himself in such a vulnerable way. The way Henrik spoke of him feel small, and he still feels that way now, curled up in his cave against a body warmer than his. It doesn't matter how many years he's been in this relationship, the act of letting his guard down around anyone makes him feel exposed.  
  
It also makes him sleepy, and he can feel his eyes drooping as he listens to Henrik breathe slower as he starts to drift off too in their makeshift nest.  
  
(Norway's national bird is the white-throated dipper. It has a brown head, which shifts into black at the nape of its neck, with a white breast and a chestnut stripe across the belly. Unremarkable, for those uninterested in birds, not majestic like the swans of Denmark or the often pale, ghostly appearance of the large Icelandic gyrfalcon. But what makes the dipper unique is that despite its compact size, it is an excellent swimmer in swift-running waters. It dips, barely breaking the water's surface, and without a quick eye, you might never see it submerge itself. It uses its strong wings to propel itself like fins—seemingly unfitting given at first glance the dipper looks nothing like a water bird—and can balance itself mid-water despite strong currents.)  
  
He wants to stay here, where it's warm and dark, but he has to go to the bathroom.  
  
(The dipper is certainly impressive, if not strange. But far from the rocky rivers and streams, amongst the surf of the sea, can be found another odd bird of water.)  
  
Halvard glances at himself in the mirror as he washes his hands, eyelids dark, sunken, and heavy with tiredness. His bare, powerful shoulders sag in much the same way, and even in the dim light he can make out the variations in his skin—moles, faded scars, imprints of sheets. Maybe he's more exhausted than he thought, as he peers closer to examine his bloodshot eyes after he shuts off the water.  
  
(A diver with deep-set eyes—red like the color of drying blood—who in the winter wears the coat of an otter, with a cream-colored chest and a drab brown back, beak the same color of the bones of the fish that it hunts. Quiet, unassuming, riding the ocean waves and venturing far from shore, so clumsy that walking on land is difficult, but in the water, a true terror, plunging so very deep into the sea in search of food. Old legends suggested that loons were the creators of the world, diving to the bottom of the abyss to search for patches of mud that would form the earth. Associated with magic and the power of nature, people learned to use this bird's behavior to predict rain and cold.)  
  
He's a bit cold, too, staring at himself in the mirror after leaving bed. So he returns, lingering in the hallway and stretching out his rusty spine before climbing back into warmth.  
  
(But during the summer, after shedding its muddy coloring, the great northern loon begins to burn, turning black with white-flecked embers dotted like grains of salt on a dark tablecloth. The harsh lines that run across its throat—which resemble a row of scars—don't impede it from vocalizing. In fact, the voice of the loon is striking, often described as the laughing of mad, a wail of deep loss, akin to the lonely howling of a wolf. Loud, powerful, the sort of noise that refuses to fade from memory.)  
  
Halvard nestles back into the darkness and exhales with effort.  
  
(Haunting? Ghastly? Perhaps so. But the truth behind these songs is simple. It's an innocent question, spoken in the language of birds.)  
  
He trusts that Henrik is there, next to him somewhere, unseen and unheard, but there's no way of knowing for sure. But Halvard has spent plenty of years fishing alone in the icy clear waters of the north and he wouldn't take migration as a sign of treachery.  
  
But he reaches out a hand anyway—knowing closeness is a comfort to lull himself back to sleep—and he brushes the side of Henrik's face with the back of his fingernails.  
  
(“My love, where are you?” one loon cries out as the sun starts to fall.)  
  
Henrik shifts and brushes a toe down Halvard's leg.  
  
(And the response, “I'm here, I'm here.”)  
  
Halvard taps Henrik's nose.  
  
Henrik hums a low note and opens his eyes even though they can't see each other.  
  
(Throughout the young night, the melody of “where are you, I'm scared” and “I'm here, don't worry” echoing across foggy lakes with painted black trees, dripping twilight from their branches.)  
  
No one guide exists to map all the peculiarities of avifauna, just as there is no one guide to life, one guide to loving, or one way of being. Even people trained in the art of birding have to flip through multiple references, comparing painted images and glossy photographs to the birds that fly in their memories. Road maps are clear-cut, but life is not, for there are exceptions to the rules, oddities and miracles, a bird singing on a branch that does not resemble anything written about and therefore shouldn't exist.  
  
This is a world in which black crows can be ivory white if they have the right genes. A place where the hoatzin—a phoenix-like bird who has clawed wings like a modern dinosaur—would seemingly be nothing but a legend if not for ornithologists telling the world that it is so. Hybridization and mutation happen faster than publishers can pin it down on paper.  
  
Halvard can see a world in which he never loved Henrik, scenarios in which he never stopped feeling bitter towards him, another universe in which their relationship went up in smoke and they never decided to rekindle the fire. He doesn't doubt that another him would still curse the old metaphorical fishhooks of Denmark's kingdom and run his fingers down the invisible scars on his neck in memory of how Norway was treated.  
  
He recognizes that, and that perhaps in those alternate fates he'd be just as happy as he is now, but he also doesn't think the universe in which he exists and the choices he's made are mistakes. Faulty, messy, of course, but it's wonderful in its own way.  
  
So Halvard smiles as Henrik runs a palm across his throat and laughs because it tickles a little.  
  
(You can describe the loon's white stripes not as scars, but empty gaps between harpstrings, plucked to produce the same three chords for infinity.)  
  
Halvard tells Henrik that he loves him, Henrik whispers it back.  
  
(A necklace of exposed ribs, giving a glimpse at the most vulnerable organ of them all.)  
  
“We've been to hell and back, haven't we?” Henrik sighs, a short lament.  
  
“And I think we'd do it again,” Halvard muses.  
  
“Are you ever scared, Halle?”  
  
“Yes. Of course. Are you?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
A hand curls around another, wingtip to wingtip.  
  
And neither is sure who it was who reached out first.

* * *

  
Everyone wishes that life were like the novels that people read and keep on their coffee tables to give off a sense of indie sophistication to the people they invite over. There's an appeal of envying those poetic lives, to emulate them and long for scenes from television to cross over into our own. We want to live in a dreamworld, concocted from snippets and unrealistic idolizations.  
  
But the reality is that Henrik and Halvard don't remain holding hands together in their dark burrow. It's true that during the night, small movements and little touches occur, but Henrik doesn't sleep still and Halvard has never had any lover who fixed his insomnia. So they drift, Halvard flipping over to try and sleep in another position after waking up, Henrik rolling and kicking sheets off of him for air.  
  
They don't love each other less, sleeping on opposite sides of the bed, nor do they when Halvard wakes up Henrik some nights and asks him to sleep elsewhere because he's snoring too loudly. Sometimes they go to bed in the same house but in different rooms. Sometimes Henrik slips out after Halvard has passed out from exhaustion and watches muted television alone, or Halvard does shots of alcohol while scribbling half-coherent notes that he won't understand when he wakes up at the kitchen table.  
  
It isn't a ray of sunshine that wakes Henrik, but gray clouds. He's sweaty, regretting sleeping under so many blankets, and he knows his breath smells bad. He yawns, water welling up in his eyes, grunts, and realizes that he somehow ended up sleeping on Halvard's bird guide, leaving a weird imprint into his side.  
  
Halvard's hair is jetting out in all directions, resembling Medusa and her hair of many snakes, a tell-tale sign that he's shifted many times during the night and also was running his fingers through his own hair to calm himself into sleeping. He looks tired, even while resting.  
  
Food is the first thing on Henrik's mind. Neither of them ate dinner, choosing to stay in bed instead, and while Henrik still wants to stay, his ravenous stomach screams at him to eat. The air outside the blankets is colder than Henrik expected, which prompts him to pick up his pair of discarded pants on the floor.  
  
The simple act of putting them on proves to be too hard, for when Henrik attempts to put his second leg through the hole, he loses balance, trips, and smacks himself face first onto the floor.  
  
And he stays, lying there, unable to get up because he cannot believe he failed to complete something so simple as putting pants on. He is a man who has painted himself red with the blood of his enemies. He is someone who once ruled vast stretches of land. He is Henrik, a fine specimen of a human being, a proud leader and a jovial person, strong, powerful, handsome, someone who can throw axes with a ridiculous amount of accuracy, but somehow fucked up just trying to put pants on.  
  
He gets over it fairly quickly, telling himself that great men make mistakes all the time, and wanders into the kitchen.  
  
Henrik is too lazy to cook anything, so he rummages around for something that requires little effort to eat in Halvard's fridge, which is unfortunately quite barren given that Halvard has been traveling the past several weeks and didn't return to his home until yesterday with Henrik.  
  
“What the hell, Halle,” Henrik mutters as he discovers a plastic container filled with animal bones and has the feeling that he shouldn't ask why or how.  
  
His options narrow down to drinking beer or exerting some effort to cut open a pineapple. He settles on the fruit and grins to himself as he selects the sharpest knife Halvard owns to cut it apart.  
  
Outside, on the tree closest to the window, is a tiny animal, painted in grayscale, that Henrik recognizes as the bird on the cover of Halvard's guidebook.  
  
(If someone told you to imagine a meat-eating bird, you'd probably conjure images of golden eagles and long-eared owls, maybe a razorbill if you're being clever. You'd think of large birds, birds with crushing claws and an imposing presence, the kind of animals that make you gawk. While the words “predatory songbird” seem like a contradiction, they are the perfect words for describing the northern shrike, a tiny compact carnivore that looks more like a cloud than it does a killer. The only clue that this bird hunts is its wickedly curved bill, pointed like a little comma.)  
  
Henrik carves, using the knife to shear away the rough skin and expose the yellow underneath, chopping it into small chunks.  
  
(Shrikes are also known as butcherbirds for their unique behavior. While their beak is designed for piercing they lack proper talons and cannot hold prey securely with their tiny feet. Evolution's solution to this problem is that the shrike has learned to skewer its prey on thorns or sandwich it between two branches where it can easily tear off chunks of flesh without worry. If you ever come across the remains of an insect impaled on barbed wire, it was surely the work of a shrike. It is not unlike us, who use tools to make feeding ourselves easier. Who knows how long Henrik would have to struggle to cut open the pineapple if he only used his hands and teeth.)  
  
The butcher outside whistles and crackles after piercing a mouse while the butcher inside hums a cheery tune and forks a piece of pineapple.

* * *

  
Henrik starts fingering through the pages of a different book, one without pictures, while Halvard continues to slumber. The green cover shows signs of water damage, the spine is hanging on only by threads, and there is no title or markings to designate what it's about. It's old, but in print, with blocky lettering and notes that Halvard wrote to himself in the margins. Henrik tries to decipher Halvard's chickenscratch, uninterested in the actual content of the book, and fondly smiles at a small doodle of a flower next to a paragraph labeled “completely inane!”  
  
Halvard stirs beside him.  
  
“Firecrest,” he mutters, opening one eye and then closing it, jamming his face back into his pillow and grumbling irritably. All Halvard wants to do is continue sleeping, he's still tired and the sheets are warm, but there are things to be done and his body will not allow him to continue resting.  
  
“That's a weird way to say good morning, Halle.”  
  
“Loud. Turn your voice down.”  
  
“Sorry,” and Henrik drops his tone, lowering his voice and speaking softer. He rubs Halvard's back slowly, both to apologize further and to help him wake up. “What did you mean by that, though?”  
  
“If you're dubbing me a wren, then I'm dubbing you a firecrest.”  
  
“You're still thinking of bird names?”  
  
(A bird that sings annoyingly high notes, flitting around at the tops of trees and hunting on wing, playful and a bit comical while weighing no more than a single coin.)  
  
Halvard sits himself up, eyes shutting, and runs a hand through Henrik's greasy hair.  
  
“Redhead,” he mutters, before collapsing onto Henrik's shoulder with a huff.  
  
(The firecrest, true to the name, has a flame-colored crown of feathers, accented by dark face bands and bronzed shoulders. All kinglet species either have yellow or red crest feathers, but the firecrest can have one or both of those colorations depending on the particular genetics of the individual.)  
  
“You're a little king,” Halvard whispers, pulling off of Henrik and locking eyes. “With marks on your face and hair like fire. You're noisy and active but you're nothing more than a ball of fluff. Tiny,” he pokes Henrik in the chest. “Tiny.”  
  
(The words for the firecrest and the Eurasian wren were once so similar that historians think there was a bit of a mixup. While the wren takes the modern title of king of all birds, it's thought that it originally belonged to the smaller, ashbearing firecrest. It's a stolen crown, or perhaps was passed from one bird to the other. Why bear the title of king when you're already a kinglet? Why not bestow your fortune onto the mousy and shy wren, who bears no royal colors?)  
  
“You must still be dreaming if you think I'm tiny,” Henrik laughs. “But yeah. I'll take it. Firecrest I am.”  
  
(Most of us pass by birds in our everyday life, unknowing that despite the rifts between species, there are many birds that coexist with one another, birds that sing together, birds that learn to adapt to each other and grow. The arms race between the parasitic common cuckoo and the small birds it tricks into raising its offspring has been a long standing battle, they are enemies who take turns outsmarting each other, but they're content with this conflict. In the meanwhile, different kinds of shorebirds often feed together, not in competition, but as companions.)  
  
Henrik convinces Halvard to get out of bed and they both prepare to go into town, restocking Halvard's fridge in preparation for longer and colder nights as the leaves have just begun to change color. This is the last time they discuss bird names, shelving the book where it will gather dust again, although they do kiss a little more before leaving the house.  
  
Well, you know what they say.  
  
Whether they are a swan and a loon, a wren and a firecrest, or both little buntings in a never-ending game of courtship is irrelevant.  
  
Birds of a feather flock together.

**Author's Note:**

> \- If you did not open the powerpoint I put in the beginning notes [here](https://docs.google.com/presentation/d/1A6QMoK4z79vbO6QcAYlxXOGo4hEc73WMHC2XFjpZ0Qw/edit?usp=sharing) it is again in case you want to look now.
> 
> \- Not all the bird jokes/puns cross over between English and the Danish/Norwegian languages simply because a lot of their common names are different. Initially tried to keep it kind of plausible between the three but it proved to be too much (and I also don't know Danish/Norwegian so trying to dissect names in languages I don’t know proved to be difficult) so I stuck with just dealing with English names. So it's unrealistic if you really think about it, but shhhhhh.
> 
> \- Some birds are more commonly found in Denmark and some more commonly in Norway, but everything listed is something that exists in either of the two countries (asides from the hoatzin, which lives in South America).
> 
> \- The Fisher King is a character from Arthurian legend and has no known connection to kingfishers other than his name, but as I was doing stuff with kingfisher wordplay I thought it’d be interesting to incorporate it.
> 
> \- In the case of the great northern loon—in my research, I found that they seem to normally do their wail-call during breeding season and are more commonly found in North America and Iceland during this time. I did, however, find sightings for them during breeding season both off the coast of Norway and closer to mainland as WELL as finding indications of immature birds (which surprised me!), so I decided to write about them rather than the more common loon species in Norway (the red-throated diver) because I'm more familiar with great northern loons (and have actually seen them in the wild) and because the traits the bird possessed suited what I wanted to do more.
> 
> I did originally write about the red-throated diver, but I ended up getting stuck, and while doing more research and discovering that there were indeed Norwegian summer-dwelling northern loons, I scrapped it and switched to the other bird. It’s a bit of a stretch maybe, but fiction is fiction for a reason and I doubt anyone reading this cares as much about bird accuracy as myself haha. And it’s entirely possible that they are more common than we know too or if the species range has dramatically shifted over centuries either.


End file.
